The Unwelcome Warlock loe-11

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  None of them had worked. His magic was gone. All of it. It had simply ceased to exist.

  He was no longer a warlock.

  That raised a thousand questions — was his magic gone forever? Would it return in a few minutes, a few hours, a few years? Were other warlocks affected? Did this mean he would never be Called?

  That last question brought another — if there was a way to get his magic back, did he want to?

  Thira the Warlock had been sitting in her kitchen, trying to decide whether wine made the nagging in her head better or worse, and wondering whether oushka might make it stop, or might overcome her resistance entirely. She had been dreading the night ahead; if she slept she knew she would have nightmares, and she knew she might wake up in mid-air on her way to Aldagmor, but if she didn’t sleep, she would weaken as she grew wearier, and might doze off and find herself as badly off as if she had just gone to bed. Maybe worse.

  She had been toying with a carving knife, wondering whether suicide might be preferable to the Calling, and wondering whether suicide was even possible for a warlock, when the Call stopped.

  It was like a physical blow; she rocked back in her chair, her eyes wide, and the knife fell from her hand and clattered on the floor. She fell half an inch onto her chair as the magic that she had been unconsciously using vanished.

  The kitchen was suddenly all there was. The whispering, the barely-glimpsed images in her head, the awareness of the composition of everything around her, had all disappeared. Only the real, solid, everyday world remained. The hard seat of her chair, the lingering scent of garlic left from supper, the lamplight reflecting from the brightly-glazed bowls on the shelf, were all newly intense because everything she had sensed through her magic was no longer distracting her.

  “Oh,” she gasped.

  She sat for several minutes simply taking in the silence, the clarity. Then she finally allowed herself to think about what it might mean.

  It meant she was no longer a warlock; she found that out quickly enough. Everything she attempted failed. Her magic was completely, utterly gone.

  That assumed, of course, that this was real. For the last sixnight, she had often been unsure what was real and what was not, as the voices and images in her head crowded out her natural senses. Could this be some new, different illusion? Perhaps this was all just her imagination, and she was actually flying to Aldagmor even now, only thinking she was still safe in her own kitchen. After all, she had never heard of a warlock who had gone past the nightmare threshold to the very brink of being Called suddenly recovering like this.

  She rapped her knuckles on the table. It certainly felt real, and the sound was clear and distinct.

  But if it was real, why?

  This was beyond her understanding. She wanted to talk to someone, someone who might be able to explain this.

  The only place she could think of where she thought she might find answers was Warlock House, on High Street in the New City. She had only been there once, when she completed her apprenticeship and formally joined the Council, but of course she remembered where it was.

  She stood up and found herself slightly unsteady on her feet without magic to support her; she caught herself on the table, regained her balance, and smiled.

  “It must be real,” she murmured. “Why would I imagine that?”

  She wondered what the people at Warlock House would have to say about this. Had it ever happened before? Might there be dozens of ex-warlocks living in secret in the city?

  Moving slowly and carefully, she turned and headed for the door.

  Little Sammel focused all his attention on the coin, as he had a dozen times that day, but something felt wrong. He could not sense it — he could see it, but could not feel it, and the coin refused to move. The power seemed to have failed him.

  “Something’s wrong, Master,” he said.

  His master did not reply immediately, and the apprentice turned to see whether the elder warlock was angry, or merely distracted.

  He did not appear to be either one; he looked frightened.

  But that was silly; what could frighten a powerful warlock like Dabran the Pale?

  “Master?” Sammel asked, uncertainly.

  “Sammel,” Dabran said, his own voice unsteady. “Do you feel it?”

  “Feel what, Master?”

  “The...the quiet.”

  “I don’t feel anything, Master. I can’t...my magic seems to be gone.”

  A crooked smile appeared on Dabran’s face.

  “Mine is, too, apprentice,” he said. “Mine is, too.”

  Over and over, in shops and homes, streets and skies, all through the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars and in a dozen other lands, similar scenes played out. A few warlocks died when their magic failed; so did a few of their customers, and a handful of bystanders. A few more people were injured. Some former warlocks bemoaned their loss of power; others delighted in knowing they were free of the Call. Some thought they were alone and tried to conceal their vulnerability; others gathered to compare notes on what might have happened.

  In the Baronies of Sardiron warlocks were almost unknown; that realm was too close to Aldagmor for comfort, the Calling too strong. In the more northerly Small Kingdoms, warlocks were scarce because they were not welcome; in the southernmost Small Kingdoms, warlocks were nonexistent, by edict of the Wizards’ Guild, which had banned them from the area in 5224. Word was therefore slow to spread in those regions.

  In most of the towns and cities of the World, though, it was well known by morning that there were no more warlocks, and no more Call.

  What was not yet widely known was why.

  Chapter Five

  Hanner looked out at the torchlit thousands of people sitting huddled on the grass, stretching out hundreds of yards in every direction, most of them shivering from the cold — as yet, no one had gathered fuel for proper campfires.

  “Water is probably the most urgent need,” he said, “but if we don’t get some sort of shelter, some of the older people may freeze.”

  “It’s too bad there isn’t any snow,” Sensella said. “We could use that for water and shelter.”

  “We can’t stay here, either,” Hanner added. “There’s no food.”

  “That’s true.” She looked around at the dark surrounding hills. “There were farms here once, I believe.”

  “There were,” a young man said from just behind her elbow, speaking Ethsharitic with a thick Sardironese accent. “My family’s farm was just over there.” He pointed. “We grew wheat and beans, mostly.”

  Hanner said, “You’re from Aldagmor?”

  “Yes,” the young man said. “I’m Rayel Roggit’s son.”

  “It must be a shock, waking up to find your home gone,” Hanner said.

  Rayel shuddered. “My home, and more than thirty years, gone in the blink of an eye! I was in bed, and I had this strange nightmare, and I thought I heard something like thunder but I wasn’t sure because I was still asleep, and then the next thing I know I’m jammed in among my family and my neighbors down at the bottom of a pit in the dark, and everyone’s screaming and crying and we can’t breathe, and when we get out — those of us who did; I’m pretty sure my brother died in there — we find this.”

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” Sensella said.

  Rayel shook his head. “It doesn’t seem real. He can’t be dead, but I didn’t see him get out.”

  Hanner nodded, then said, “If you’re from around here, then you must know where we can find water.”

  “We had a well, but I think it must have fallen in years ago. There’s a stream half a mile that way, though.” He pointed to the southeast.

  “Thank you.” He had already sent people out looking for water, so he did not rush to send more. It wasn’t as if they had buckets in which to fetch it back; the closest thing to a bucket he had found so far was a soldier’s helmet. There were about a dozen guardsmen, and half of them still had their helmets; he had sen
t that half-dozen out with the water-seekers.

  It could have been worse. Most of the throng spoke Ethsharitic, and most of the rest spoke Sardironese, so they could communicate fairly well. Hanner thought it was fortunate, in a way, that the thing, whatever it was, had been trapped in Aldagmor, where the population of the surrounding area for a dozen leagues in every direction spoke only those two languages. If it had landed in the linguistic chaos of the Small Kingdoms, no one would have been able to organize this mob. As it was, the more varied areas were far enough away that they had produced few warlocks.

  Also, there were few children to worry about, and those few generally had parents with them — almost the entire population of Aldagmor as of the Night of Madness had been in that pit, but outside the immediate area the Calling had mostly drawn adults. A few older children had been caught, but only a few.

  There were a good many older people, but most were in excellent health — thanks to their magical healing, warlocks were not subject to the sort of accumulated damage that most people acquired over the years. As with children, there were a few drawn here on the Night of Madness; they had never consciously been warlocks, and had therefore never had a chance to heal themselves of time’s wounds.

  For the most part, though, the throng of former warlocks was disproportionately made up of unusually fit adults in their middle years.

  Even so, Hanner and Sensella had agreed that once the sun was up, they all needed to get moving, to get out of this isolated valley and back to civilization. Even if they had tools, even if they had time to raise crops before they starved, this place couldn’t support so many people. They needed to find food for all these thousands of hungry mouths.

  What was happening out there in the rest of the World? It seemed certain that warlockry had vanished everywhere — but that left the mystery of Emperor Vond. Some of the later arrivals had given Hanner a very brief account of who Vond was, but no one had a good explanation of why he had been so extraordinarily powerful, why he had been able to conquer a dozen of the Small Kingdoms, and why he apparently still had his magic. Was it really warlockry, or something else?

  Hanner knew that on the Night of Madness other sorts of magicians had become warlocks; he had known some of them personally. Even as powerful a wizard as Manrin the Mage, a Guildmaster, had been affected. Hanner wished old Manrin were here, but Manrin hadn’t been Called; he had been executed by the Wizards’ Guild for breaking Guild rules.

  So maybe Vond had some other sort of magic, and had warlockry on top of it, and even with warlockry gone he had still had the other sort — but what sort was it? Did anyone else have it?

  Did anyone else here have any magic? A witch or a wizard might be very handy right now.

  “Hai!” he called. “Is anyone here a magician other than a warlock? Are there any wizards or witches or sorcerers, or people who used to be?”

  No one responded immediately, but the question was passed on through the crowd, and a few minutes later a handful of people made their way to Hanner’s side. To his surprise, he recognized one of them, though she was older than he remembered. “Alladia of Shiphaven?”

  “Yes, Chairman.” She was staring at him, and he realized he was probably staring, as well. “You do know that you were Called ten years before I was, don’t you?”

  “I do now,” he said. “And...you were a witch?”

  “No, a priestess,” she said.

  “That’s right, I’m sorry. It’s been a long time.”

  “It has,” she agreed. “So long that I don’t know if I can remember a single invocation properly. I don’t know if I still have any of the talent at all.”

  “Could you try?” Hanner asked. “Is there a god who will feed the hungry, or provide warmth, or water?”

  “Of course. Piskor the Generous can provide food and water — though perhaps not for this large a multitude. Tarma or Konned could keep us warm.” She frowned. “I don’t remember how to summon Konned at all. Piskor — I think I remember part of it. It has the standard opening for her class of deity, and ends with awir ligo...No, awir thigo lan takkoz wesfir yu.But I’m not sure of the rest.”

  “Do your best,” Hanner said. “Maybe you can find other theurgists.”

  “I’m a theurgist.” A man Hanner did not recognize stepped forward. “I haven’t been...I mean, I came here on that first night. I don’t have my scrolls or anything, but I remember my spells.”

  “Good! Then the two of you can work on that. Anyone else?”

  “I’m a witch,” a man said, struggling to get the words out. Hanner had not noticed immediately in the dim, flaring torchlight, but now he saw that the man was exhausted, his face drawn, unsteady on his feet. “I’ve been trying to heal some of the injured.”

  “And you’re killing yourself in the process, aren’t you?” Hanner asked.

  The man turned up an empty palm. “I had to try. There are...there are more of us, and I was resting, so when your call came —”

  “Thank you,” Hanner said. “Healing is probably the best thing for you witches to do, but please, don’t do too much. I know witchcraft drains your strength. Please, sit down, rest.” He gestured, and two nearby men helped the witch to seat himself on the trampled grass. Then Hanner raised his voice. “Who else?”

  “I am Thand the Wizard,” someone answered. He wore a nightshirt,and shivered as if he was freezing in the cold night air. “But I came here straight from my bed; I don’t have any of the ingredients I would need for my spells.”

  “I have my...my dagger,” a woman in a green wizard’s robe said, “because I was out late that night, but I didn’t bring anything else. If we can find the right plants or stones, we might be able to work a few simple spells.”

  “But I don’t have my book,” Thand said. “Even with the ingredients, I can’t do much without it.”

  “I was a wizard before I was a warlock,” an old man said, “but I had to forsake wizardry and leave the Guild. I don’t think wizardry is going to do us much good here. None of us have our books of spells, and only those who were Called immediately on the Night of Madness can do any magic at all.”

  “I’m a demonologist,” a woman volunteered, “but if you think I’m going to summon a demon here, without any wards or safeguards, without my books and contracts, you’re mad.”

  “A demon probably wouldn’t help much in any case,” Hanner said.

  “I’m a dancer,” another woman said, glancing about uncertainly, “but we’d need at least eight people, and I’m not sure what we could do.”

  Hanner could not think of anything to say to her; he had never been sure ritual dances really worked at all. “Anyone else?”

  Others spoke up, but the results were not encouraging.

  No one who had learned warlockry as an apprentice knew any other magic, of course, and of those who had become warlocks on the Night of Madness, most had given up their other magic long ago, and completely enough that they could no longer use it at all, even now that warlockry was no longer blocking it.

  Those who had been Called on the Night of Madness included representatives of every sort of magic Hanner had ever heard of, but most were fairly useless. Wizards could do almost nothing without their books and tools, though a few could assist in lighting fires.

  The witches were all attending to the injured or frightened, and undoubtedly doing considerable good, but did not have the power for anything dramatic.

  None of the sorcerers had any useful talismans with them. Most had come directly from their beds and had no talismans at all. A fellow named Senesson of Lordiran had a tiny glass box that glowed like a miniature lantern, and Karitha of Seacorner had a sorcerous weapon that she said could kill a man at twenty paces, but there was no sorcery to provide food or water or shelter.

  The herbalists had brought no herbs with them, save for one who found a single bundle of a leaf that would cause gentle sleep in his belt-pouch, and of course their gardens were far away and probably long
gone. They could not hope to find anything useful in the dark, but once the sun rose, they might manage something.

  As always, the scientists and prestidigitators were no help.

  None of the demonologists would attempt anything without the safeguards they had had at home. The ritual dancers seemed more cooperative, but did not immediately agree on what should be done, or how to do it, and at least two of them did not think anything could be done until the sun came up.

  The theurgists seemed like the best prospect for providing real help; four or five of them had gathered to summon Piskor, Tarma, and a water-god named Tivei.

  None of the magicians could explain Vond’s magic.

  “I think it’s something in Lumeth of the Towers,” Sensella volunteered.

  Startled, Hanner turned. “What?”

  “I think it’s something in Lumeth,” she repeated.

  “Why?” Hanner asked.

  “Several years ago, after you were Called, the Wizards’ Guild banned all warlocks from Lumeth of the Towers, and everywhere else in a twenty-league radius, and it apparently had something to do with the Empire of Vond.”

  “The Wizards’ Guild? Why?”

  She turned up both palms. “No one knows; they wouldn’t say. But practicing warlockry anywhere within twenty leagues of Lumeth is punishable by death. They made a big dramatic announcement — a bunch of wizards went all over the southern Small Kingdoms issuing edicts.”

  “When was this?”

  Sensella had to think for a moment. “5224, maybe? About then. I was living in Ethshar of the Sands, so I didn’t hear about it right away, but I think it was 5224.”

  That was five years in the future, as far as Hanner could remember, but he knew it was really a dozen years ago. “But...why?”

  Sensella shook her head. “No one knows. Well, no one except the wizards, and you know how they are about keeping secrets.”

  Hanner turned to look at the miserable handful of wizards who had come to Aldagmor in their robes and nightshirts. They had all been here since 5202. Even if he could somehow get past the Guild’s secrecy rules, none of them would know anything about events in 5224.